


good god, let me go home

by englishsummerrain



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 12:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16892979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englishsummerrain/pseuds/englishsummerrain
Summary: they’ve been through too much together, all of them, for seungcheol to ever want to break it. for seungcheol to ever want to risk it, to open his mouth and speak the words that roll around in his head like marbles on an endless track.





	good god, let me go home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yoonouji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoonouji/gifts).



> hello my lovely recipient. sorry this didn't entirely fit your wishlist - the story kind of ran away from me (as they tend to do sometimes). regardless, i hope you have a wonderful holiday season, and i hope this is at least something like what you may have wanted <3

 

The first time the words slip from his mouth he’s barely fifteen years old, wrapped up in the cool arms of summer’s last breath. His body aches and there’s not a soul to accompany him, only the Han where it laps at the riverbank, only the bounce of the ball on the court still warm with faded sunbeams. The lights of central Seoul glitter across the black water and a neon snake of car headlights stretches across the highway. 

 

The backboard rattles and the ball rolls around the hoop, once, twice, before eeking its way out and falling to the concrete again. Seungcheol chases it and scoops it up into his arms before it hits the dirt, shirt stuck to his back from sweat. He dribbles it across the court, wrist motions lazy, gait short, lines up another shot and lets it fly, straight through the hoop to thump against the court. It bounces in place as he pauses for a second, mind overrun, filled to the brim with stagnant raindrops and this fear that underpins everything.

 

“I’m gay.”

 

He says it almost as an exhale.

 

A few herons in the reeds click their beaks at each other, feathers ruffling, their long legs barely making a ripple in the shallows. The ball rolls to the edge of the court and comes to rest on the grass. His shadow is a giant in the lamps of the streetlights, but he feels so very small.

 

\--

 

The truth of it is that he’s always known. 

 

“You ever kissed a girl, hyung?” Jihoon asks. He’s tired, worn, collarbones sticking through his perpetually bruised skin, the empty cup of noodles (shared with Soonyoung) beside his keyboard the only real meal he’s going to get for the day. The studio is quiet and it’s just the two of them, side by side, dirty napkins on the table and a notebook filled with crossed out lyrics in front of Seungcheol.

 

“No,” Seungcheol says.

 

He’s always known that he’s like this, that he’s different. He's always known, and no-one else ever will.

 

“Me neither,” Jihoon says. “Never even held hands.” 

 

He chews on his lip and opens his mouth, shuts it again, like there’s something more to the sentence. He glances sideways, hazards a look at Seungcheol, who meets his eyes with the blankest expression he can school his face into. “What do you think it’s like?” Jihoon says.

 

“I don’t know,” Seungcheol says. “Nice, probably.”

 

It’s not a lie. He’s never held hands with a girl.

 

He  _ has _ held hands with a boy, and he knows how it feels for it to be someone who makes your heart skip. To have their fingers tie with yours, squeeze your palms tight together. The warmth of their body, burning against yours as they pull themselves close to you, looking for comfort and reassurance.

 

Nice doesn’t encompass it. To Seungcheol, it feels safe. It feels whole. It feels like it was always meant to be. It feels like a comfort no words could ever afford him, something that touches his heart and wraps him up tight.

 

How can he know, he asks himself over and over, that he’s like this. He’s never even kissed a girl. Never held the hand of one. Never, never, never. He wonders if he should see, if he should try it, just to be sure. Just to hope that maybe it will fix him, put him back on the track they all expect from him. 

 

But you can still know something’s not for you, even if you’ve never done it.  He clenches his hands into fists under the table and looks down, as if there’s an answer written there on the scuffed floor.

 

There’s some things that Seungcheol just knows.

 

He picks up the notebook and stares hard at the lyrics in a desperate attempt to seem occupied, something swollen unbidden in the back of his throat.

 

“I bet it does,” Jihoon says. He sighs, his chair letting out a groan as he leans back into it.

 

“Is it bothering you?” Seungcheol asks, not wanting the silence to linger on, not wanting to have any more time stuck in his own mind. Jihoon shakes his head.

 

“No, not really. Just -” he pauses. Seungcheol closes the notebook.

 

“Just?”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

He worries. He has to, because they’re all his responsibility. Because Jihoon is his rock, the only one who keeps him sane sometimes, the only person who’s been in this for as long as he has. He knows what it’s like to fight for this long, to be so unsure of his future. He knows Seungcheol, inside and out — except for this one thing. Except for this fear.

 

If Seungcheol were brave, he would tell him. But he’s not brave. He’s not proud.

 

He’s scared. 

 

It’s the fear above all other fears, the fear that drives him. The fear of being found out and losing all of this. There’s no plan to tell anyone, to ever unwrap the layers of his heart and expose them.

 

“Okay,” Seungcheol says. He lays his hand on the table, palm up, and Jihoon’s fingers wrap around his.

 

“Okay,” Jihoon repeats.

 

\--

 

He clings on to their debut and he clings on to their music, onto moments like these, hours in the studio with his headphones on and the steady rhythm of Jihoon’s fingers on the electric keyboard filling in the silence. Every scrap thrown his way is something with which to build the rope to climb out of this dark hole, to escape from this castle and see the light of day once more. 

 

He stares at himself in the mirror, scuffed with toothpaste stains and peeling from the edges, and tells it to himself over and over again. He will see the light again. He will debut, even after it has been snatched from him again and again. 

 

The building is cold and there’s not enough money to heat their dorms but he keeps going, hand warmer pressed between his palms, blankets trailing on the floor when he walks from his bunk to Jihoon’s to press their bodies together and savour the heat.

 

He keeps going. He has to. Their debut is all he has left and he knows this has to be  _ it _ . This has to be the final chapter in this meandering novel, this has to be where the sequel begins. He’s worked too hard for this, he and Jihoon, all of them really, they’ve worked too hard for this to be another dead end and another “I’m sorry”. He sings until his throat is raw and his head hurts from exhaustion, sleeps in the practice room on top of one of the blue mats with a blanket he keeps rolled up in the cupboards. He dances day and night, falls asleep again with Soonyoung beside him, wakes up to his drool on his shoulder and the two of them holding each other tight.

 

_ They will survive. They will debut. _

 

He buries the knives in his heart. He knows. He knows. This will all pass, and they will do what they were born to do.

 

\--

 

Jeonghan was the last of them, shy and quiet, his heart strong and his laugh loud. His eyes had glittered in the shitty practice room lights and Seungcheol had been able to say it himself — that he was truly the most beautiful boy he’d ever know. 

 

This is the worst part of it all because Jeonghan touches him and his heart skips a beat.

 

This is the worst part of it all because he’s a leader, and leaders don’t love their members like this. They don’t want to kiss them until their lips are red, they don’t want to map out every inch of their bodies with their fingers. They don’t feel their cheeks warm when they laugh, when they lock eyes from across the room, when they share a bed for comfort.

 

Leaders don’t fall in love with members, and boys don’t fall in love with their friends, but Seungcheol will be in love with Jeonghan for so long that eventually it feels as easy as breathing to smother the dull ache in his heart and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

 

\--

 

Everything that has happened will happen again. Time is a flat circle.

 

\--

 

“You still never kissed a girl?” Jihoon asks, spinning around in his chair. The studio is new, a personal one, much cosier than the main Pledis studio and slowly beginning to fill with Jihoon’s things - his new keyboard, his computer, a set of speakers that don’t have the covers ripped off. The mic overhanging his desk has been pushed up and the posters on the walls are a mix match of old Pledis artists and ones of Jihoon’s own taste. Something thrown haphazardly together to make a bare room look lived in.

 

“Nope,” Seungcheol says. His heart beats a little faster, but he’s had years of dodging this question now. He’s good at it. He looks back down at his phone and tries to appear busy.

 

Jihoon laughs.

 

“We’re kinda hopeless, aren’t we?” he says.

 

“Busy, probably,” Seungcheol says. He picks up a pillow and punches it into a more useable shape.

 

“Ah yes, the eternal ‘I’m busy’ excuse.”

 

“Jihoon, you have a bed in here,” Seungcheol says. He pats the seat below him as a reminder. “You have a bed so you can sleep in the studio. How are you not too busy.”

 

“Hey, don’t point out my poor life choices,” Jihoon says. “I think it’s accepted we all have awful work-life balance, but that hasn’t stopped Soonyoung from dating. I don’t see why it should stop me.”

 

“Soonyoung is  _ not _ dating,” Seungcheol says, laughing. “You can have female friends and not date them.”

 

“Wouldn’t know,” Jihoon says. Seungcheol looks up from his phone, trying to read the slope of his shoulders.

 

“Are you upset?” He asks.

 

“No,” Jihoon says with a sigh. He spins back around in his seat and slumps. “I just feel a little stupid. That I’m twenty years old and I never learned how to talk to girls.” He lobs a ball of paper against the wall, where it bounces off and falls in a pile with a few others. 

 

“You should put a bin there,” Seungcheol says. Jihoon blinks.

 

“What?”

 

“You keep throwing paper at the wall. You should put a bin there.”

 

“Thanks for the life advice,” Jihoon snorts. “I’ll be sure to keep it in mind.”

 

“Don’t complain to me about the mess then.”

 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jihoon says with a huff. He puts his hand on his desk to spin himself back around and Seungcheol’s throat catches, his heart jumping.

 

“Wait,” he says. Jihoon stops in anticipation, tilts his head.

 

“Seungcheol?”

 

Something bubbles to the surface, something that threatens to swallow him whole. His throat feels tight around it and he struggles, voice weakening.

 

“We’ve been through a lot together,” he says. 

 

“Yeah,” Jihoon nods, “You’re right about that.”

 

“What if there was something I didn’t tell you. Something I held back.”

 

“I’d think you had your reasons for that, and I’d trust they were worthy. Just like I trust you.”

 

Jihoon blinks lazily, warm where he trains his gaze on Seungcheol. He has to know. There’s something behind his eyes that makes Seungcheol think he has to know. Jihoon, wise beyond his years, transformed into such a serious creature in the studio.

 

“It’s just,” Seungcheol begins, and then he pauses, thinking, how the words he wants to speak could leap from his throat. “Gay?”

 

“Are you asking if I’m gay?” Jihoon says, raising an eyebrow.

 

“No,” Seungcheol says. “No, no. Me.”

 

“You?” Jihoon looks at him, leans over in his chair so his feet touch the ground. “Do I think you’re gay?”

 

Jihoon’s eyes look him up and down and Seungcheol sighs, shuts his eyes and leans his head back.

 

“I am,” He says. The words seem to fall from his mouth in the way a pin dropping in a silent room might, landing with a resonance that reverberates through the air, a soft puff of air escaping Jihoon’s lips. 

 

“Oh.”

 

It’s less a sigh of disappointment and more an exclamation. “You’ve always known, haven’t you?” Jihoon continues, quiet, gentle. 

 

Seungcheol opens his eyes and it’s Jihoon. His Jihoon, who’s been there longer than he can even remember, through all this hell, clinging onto the dream of their debut when it was little more than a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. 

 

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, softly. “I have.”

 

“Before you were a trainee?”

 

“Before,” Seungcheol says. Jihoon sighs, hand opening and closing, something ticking behind his dark eyes.

 

He stands and crosses the room, sits down beside Seungcheol and rests his hand on his arm. For the briefest moment of madness Seungcheol thinks he’s going to kiss him, but it passes as Jihoon purses his lips.

 

“You can’t choose who you love, Seungcheol.”

 

The tears coming racing up his throat like wildfire, choking him up and consuming him, something wet that bursts through his heart at the words of acceptance from Jihoon’s mouth. Never what he expects, but exactly what he needs.

 

\--

 

“You seem distant,” Jeonghan says. His hair sticks up at odd ends, more peach than pink at this time of the week, a hole in the hem of his t-shirt and his sweatpants dirtied with sauce stains. The light illuminating his face changes from white to blue and he sighs, turns his phone off and looks at Seungcheol, dark rings heavy under his eyes. “Everything okay?”

 

“Comeback stress,” Seungcheol answers, like a broken record. It’s automatic, an easy shutdown to any questions. Stress about performing, stress about getting it right. Stress about taking care of twelve people as well as yourself. 

 

He digs around in the clean dishes for a cup, fills it from the tap and leans against the counter, legs unsteady. Jeonghan’s eyes don’t leave him.

 

“You’re a bad liar,” he says. 

 

He knows.

 

He’s always been a bad liar, his heart too big and open to hide the little things. He shrugs his shoulder, half hearted, barely anything left in his body anymore. He wonders how he’s been running on empty for all these years.

 

Jeonghan’s feet drag along the floor and Seungcheol turns away even as he wraps his arms around him, buries his face in Seungcheol’s shoulder.

 

“Go to sleep,” Seungcheol says, weak. 

 

“No.”

 

It’s a single syllable but Jeonghan has this effect on him, digging straight through to his heart and making him slump against the crowded countertop even more.

 

“Please don’t,” Seungcheol says, because Jeonghan’s heart is bigger than his, warm and caring and he knows he’s being real with him, knows it hurts him to see Seungcheol like this. It’s like having the wound in his heart opened up again and it hurts when Jeonghan squeezes him tight and hooks his chin over his shoulder, humming in his ear.

 

“I just want you to be alright, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan says, “you know how bad I am with this comfort stuff.”

 

“You’re okay,” Seungcheol says. 

 

“But you’re not.”

 

“I’m not,” Seungcheol says, “but I will be.” He covers Jeonghan’s hand with his. “Thank you, though.”

 

“I’m always here for your awkward, unwanted comfort needs,” Jeonghan says. He squeezes him again. “Any time, any day.”

 

“Thank you,” Seungcheol repeats.

 

\--

 

“Wanna talk to me yet?”

 

Their comeback is soon and Jeonghan’s hair has been freshly dyed, a warm pink like cherry blossoms against his rosy skin. Seungcheol’s mood instantly drops as soon as he hears the words, knowing there’s probing coming. He considers running to Jihoon’s studio and locking himself in there until Jeonghan gets bored, but he knows by now Jeonghan can smell fear like a shark hungry for blood.

 

Jeonghan huffs and throws his towel over the back of a chair, squatting down to search the overflowing wardrobe for clothes he can take. Seungcheol doesn’t even have the heart to tell him to do his own washing for once.

 

“Guess that’s a no,” Jeonghan says, muffled, head almost buried in the clothing. “You know I’m only bothering you because I give a shit, right,” Jeonghan says, pulling out a pair of Seungcheol’s sweatpants. “About you as a person, I mean.”

 

Seungcheol grumbles something incomprehensible and rolls over in his bed, onto his stomach so he doesn’t have to look at Jeonghan. The mattress dips and a sloth attaches itself to him, Jeonghan’s voice sing-song in his ears.

 

“Seungcheol.”

 

“You’re seriously not going to use aegyo on me, are you?” Seungcheol mumbles. Jeonghan laughs, low and rumbling in his chest.

 

“God no,” he says. He bumps his nose against Seungcheol’s arm, nuzzles him and bites at his bicep. “I’m just going to annoy you until you’re happy.”

 

“Are you a dog?” Seungcheol asks.

 

“I’m much more annoying than a dog,” Jeonghan says. He sighs, shuffles a little closer on the bed and throws his leg across Seungcheol’s. “Though just as persistent, I imagine”. His fingers curl into Seungcheol’s shirt and Seungcheol has to try, with all of his might, not to breathe in deep. He’s already commited the scent of Jeonghan to his memory, but greedily, he wants more. He wants what Jeonghan can’t ever give him.

 

“I love you no matter what, okay?” Jeonghan says, suddenly, like he’s a mind reader. It makes Seungcheol’s insides twist up — he’s too fragile for this right now, his heart still aching from talking with Jihoon.

 

The words break something in him and he lets go, his entire body sore with pain born from five years of love, from five years of self-hatred and sharing your life with someone that will never, ever love you back.

 

“Did Jihoon tell you?” Seungcheol asks, balling his fist in the sheet and turning his head sideways, away from Jeonghan, so he can take a long deep breath, try to regulate himself to hold it all together. Jeonghan seems bewildered when he answers.

 

“No? What? You just — you still look down. Is everything okay? Did he tell me what?”

 

“‘’s okay,” Seungcheol says, relieved. He’s not sure why he’d ever think Jihoon would say anything, would ever betray him when he made him swear to take it to his grave.  “It doesn’t matter.

 

“Of course it matters, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan says. He shakes his shoulder and Seungcheol just curls in on himself more. “Don’t play this shit with me,” Jeonghan continues, “tell me what?

 

“Ask him,” Seungcheol says. He’s fucking tired. Exhausted. It’s too much energy for him to hold this in. He feels like Atlas, the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he just wants to put it down for a second of breath.  “I don’t want to explain it.”

 

Coward.

 

“Why would I ask Jihoon when you’re right here.”

 

_ Because it hurts too much. Because you could look in my eyes right now and know. _

 

_ “ _ It’s a lot,” seungcheol says.

 

“Seungcheol. If you killed a man I’d ask where you wanted to hide the body,”

 

He laughs at that, because he has to. It’s Jeonghan. He loves him so fucking much it burns through his entire body and it hurts so badly when he screws his eyes shut and speaks to the empty half of his bed, damning himself, over and over.

 

“I,” he starts and ends in a breath, and Jeonghan feels so warm where he pats his back, his hands large and wide.

 

“It’s okay, Seungcheol. It’s okay, whatever it is. You know that right?”

 

There’s a bang and a shout from the kitchen and both their heads shoot up, before Soonyoung’s laughter rings out and Seokmin starts to shout-sing a commercial.

 

“Stupid kids,” Jeonghan mutters, but it’s soft, tinged with a fondness he can barely disguise these days. The kind that makes him glow, makes his smile even more beautiful, turns him into a miniature star that Seungcheol is so happy he gets to share with the entire world.

 

His hand rubs a reassuring circle on Seungcheol’s back.

 

“You can’t tell,” Seungcheol says. “You can’t tell anyone, okay?”

 

Jeonghan squeezes him again, something softer now, less bone breaking and more reassuring.

 

“If you don’t want me to, I won’t.”

 

“It’s just,” Seungcheol begins, slow, steady. The singing outside gets louder, joined by Chan’s cackle and the stomp of someone’s feet.

 

“It’s just that,” he starts again, “I’m not,” he pauses. “Fuck. I’m not. Jeonghan.”

 

“You’re not me, that’s a good start,” Jeonghan says, a soft chuckle vibrating through his chest. Seungcheol’s grip relaxes and he turns in Jeonghan’s arms to look him in the eyes, calm and cool and so fucking tired.

 

“Jeonghan. There’s this thing and it’s really big and it’s literally been eating me alive and it will literally ruin my life if it escapes here.”

 

“Okay,” Jeonghan says, his smile small but gentle. “It’s okay.”

 

“It’s just,” he says, again. He’s ready, he thinks, this time. “I. I like men. I’m gay, Jeonghan. Like, really gay. Extremely fucking gay. Oh my god.”

 

Seungcheol laughs, something hysterical, waiting for the whole world to come crashing down. Waiting for Jeonghan to push him away or fight him or — something. Anything. 

 

Jeonghan lets out a sigh of relief. “I thought I was going to have to actually start burying a body,” He says, laughing. “I don’t even own a shovel. But that’s okay, Seungcheol. That’s — it’s a hell of a thing. But that’s okay.”

 

“Is it?” Seungcheol asks. Jeonghan laughs.

 

“Yeah, it is. It’s not what I expected, but it’s okay. You’re still you. I don’t really know how to respond, but that’s good enough for me.” He bumps their foreheads together. “Thank you for telling me, Seungcheol. I’m glad you trust me.”

 

“I would trust you with my life.”

 

“Slow down, hotshot,” Jeonghan laughs. “You can’t be stupid, too. One big revelation at a time.”

 

“You already know I’m an idiot,” Seungcheol says. He takes a long breath, releases the tension the best he can without blowing it all in Jeonghan’s face (literally).

 

“I do,” Jeonghan says, still smiling. “You’re an absolute moron. But I love you. We all do.”

 

“Thank you,” Seungcheol says.

 

“Of course,” Jeonghan says. “You know you’re the best leader we could have asked for, right?”

 

“I bet you tell that to all your leaders,” Seungcheol says.

 

“I might,” Jeonghan says, “but that’s because it’s true.”

 

It’s a direct line to his heart, a direct hit. He’s emotionally exhausted, laid bare, and there’s nothing else he can do but accept it, press a gentle kiss to Jeonghan’s nose that for once he doesn’t shy away from.

 

“Thank you,” he repeats.

 

“Any time.”

 

\--

 

Life is cruel sometimes. It gives you impossible situations, puzzles with missing pieces and mazes where you have to break down walls to escape. It makes you abnormal and strange and causes you to wonder what curse you had placed on a past soul to suffer like this.

 

Snow rains down around him like stage confetti and Seungcheol pulls his scarf up a little more over his nose as he trudges the familiar route through the Gangnam alleys. Storefront lights glow like hearths, restaurant interiors and convenience stores glistening with promises of warm and comfort. A thick layer of snowflakes have already built up on tables not brought in, and Christmas lights glisten with every flash of the main road he catches from the corner of his eye. Gusts of chilly wind swirl around his ankles when he pushes open the door of the cafe, the slurry on his boots already melting at the heat rising up from the floorboards. He orders an americano and sits down by himself, pulls out his notebook and changes the track in his headphones to the beat Mingyu had shared earlier in the week. It sounds good, something he thinks they can work into a song.

 

There’s a tap on his shoulder and he looks up, ready to speak to a fan, surprised when he sees Jeonghan’s eyes peeking back at him from between his mask and the edge of his beanie.

 

“Mind if I sit here?” Jeonghan asks, not waiting for an answer, pulling up a chair for himself.

 

“Did you follow me from the dorm?” Seungcheol asks and Jeonghan smiles secretively.

 

“Might have. Who’s to say we don’t have the same taste in cafes?”

 

“This is a chain coffee shop,” Seungcheol says, pausing the music and letting the rush and chatter of the evening crowd fill it’s absence.

 

“I’ve been writing lyrics,” Jeonghan says, “I like it up here. The ambience carries well into the upper floor.”

 

“Lyrics?”

 

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow.

 

“What? It’s not all,” he says, waving his arms around in a vague interpretation of Flower’s choreography.

 

“Are you and Shua working on another song?”

 

“Dunno,” Jeonghan taps on the coffee stained surface of the table, “kind of wanted to write something for myself this time.”

 

Seungcheol grins. He’s unbelievably happy to see Jeonghan, the joy so infectious it bursts from him, causing a laugh to bubble up through his lips.

 

“Me too,” he says. “Are you thinking about your solo song yet?”

 

“Ah,” Jeonghan says, “yeah, I have some ideas. Soonyoung has a bunch of routines I think he’s excited to use, too.”

 

“I heard,” Seungcheol says. Soonyoung had been practically bouncing off the walls when he, Jihoon and Seungcheol had met to discuss the prospect, babbling about being excited to work with everyone, about wanting to bring out everyone’s individual style. With all the noise and chaos he caused, sometimes Seungcheol forgot just how passionate Soonyoung could be about what he did, how when he got into his choreographer role his entire demeanor changed, hyperfocus triggered and brain turned over into dance mode.

 

“Right, you guys would have talked about it?”

 

“Yeah. I think Jihoon would have burst if he held it any longer.”

 

“I did notice he hadn’t come out of the studio in a few days.”

 

“I think everyone did, except Jihoon,” Seungcheol laughs, “or at least everyone’s put together the pieces of having to deliver takeout to his door three times a day to realise he’s on some creative spree.”

 

Jeonghan’s smile crinkles at the edges of his eyes as the barista called Seungcheol’s number, and he excuses himself to pick up his drink, comes back to Jeonghan doodling on a napkin with a pen he pulled from seemingly nowhere. 

 

“Why did you follow me?” Seungcheol asks. Jeonghan shrugs.

 

“Bored. I wanted to see the snow too. They’ve finally put up the Christmas tree. Soonyoung was talking about doing a Vlive. Dunno.”

 

It’s a lot of answers all at once, but Seungcheol thinks he can pick the correct one, divine the meaning amongst all the white noise.

 

“Do you want to go see the Christmas tree?” He asks. Jeonghan doesn’t meet his eyes, stabs at the napkin with the nib of his pen.

 

“Of course I do.”

 

Seungcheol holds out his hand for Jeonghan, who scoffs and walks towards the door ahead of him.

 

“You have to earn my hand,” he says. Seungcheol rolls his eyes and follows him out the door, lets the winter wind slap his cheeks and runs to catch up with Jeonghan as snowflakes catch on his eyelashes.

 

“What is this, an arranged marriage?” Seungcheol asks. Jeonghan laughs.

 

“Please, your parents—and mine—know I’m far too good for you.”

 

“That’s slander,” Seungcheol says.

 

Jeonghan holds out his hand. “Of course,” he says. His fingers wrap around Seungcheol’s. “I’m not here to make your day good. Just to make it difficult.”

 

“You’re horrible,” Seungcheol says, the most bold faced lie he’s ever told in his life.

 

“Of course,” Jeonghan repeats. “And you’re too nice.”

 

“We make a good pair.”

 

A car honks as it blows through the lights. There’s Christmas music playing from a loudspeaker somewhere and the baubles on the streetlights glitter like stars. Jeonghan swings their hands back and forth as they wait for the crosswalk.

 

“We do,” he admits, so quiet Seungcheol almost doesn’t hear it. His heart skips a beat and the lights change, blinking green and signalling for them to cross. “Merry Christmas, Seungcheol,” 

 

“Merry Christmas,” Seungcheol says. 

 

The snow swirls around them in innumerable patterns, scattering across the bottom of Seungcheol’s coat and up on to shop windowsills. Though Seungcheol might carry this burden forever, at least he doesn’t have to carry it alone. At least he has a shoulder to lean on — something that makes it seem not so insurmountable anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twitter @ rapperdonghyuck


End file.
